The Berlin Boxing Club

by Robert Sharenow

  When Max brought Jacobs to Germany for his fight against Steve Hamas in May of 1935, it caused a huge scandal. The fight was staged in Hamburg, and first the hotel where Max had booked rooms wouldn’t even let Jacobs check in. The hotel management relented only when Max threatened to expose the hotel in the American press.

  Max pummeled Hamas so badly, the fight had to be stopped in the ninth round. The hometown crowd went wild and spontaneously sang “Deutschland über Alles.” Jacobs was standing beside Max when the entire crowd rose and gave the Nazi salute, and he was even photographed giving the salute along with everyone else, holding his ubiquitous cigar in his hand. The photograph of Jacobs and Schmeling saluting together appeared in newspapers all around the world. In America Jacobs was accused of being a traitor to his country and his religion. And in Germany Max was accused of the same kind of disloyalty because the Nazis thought that Jacobs’s salute was an insult, particularly because of the cigar he held in his raised hand.

  Although he was considered old at thirty, Max had emerged as one of the top contenders to take the heavyweight crown. The other most exciting contender was Joe Louis, who had never been defeated, and the boxing press seemed to think his ascent to the championship was inevitable. The grandson of slaves from Alabama, Louis had many nicknames in the press: the Dark Destroyer, the Mocha Mauler, the Mahogany Maimer, and the Chocolate Chopper, but he was best known as the Brown Bomber.

  Max knew that if he wanted a shot at a title fight against Jimmy Braddock, he would have to fight Louis first, so a bout was scheduled to be held in Yankee Stadium in New York on June 19, 1936. In the months leading up to the fight, Max became obsessed with Louis, studying films of his fights with a scientist’s eye and building a strategy to defeat the man who most boxing writers considered unbeatable.

  Most of his training tips for me at that time were put into the context of his upcoming fight with Louis.

  “You’ve got to work on your jab,” he said one afternoon as he watched me pound the heavy bag. “The more power and speed you can pack into your jab, the less you’ll need to rely on bigger punches that sap your energy and leave you open to counterattacks. They say Joe Louis has such a strong jab, he doesn’t even need any of his other punches. That’s why he never gets knocked out.”

  I stopped pounding the bag and asked the question that had been on my mind, along with everyone else’s in the gym: “Are you afraid to fight him?”

  “I’m never frightened of getting in the ring,” he said with a small grin.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been hurt before. I understand pain. But there are rules and codes of honor in boxing that I’ve lived my whole life by. A loss is a loss. Everyone has them. It’s the world outside the ring that’s getting more and more complicated and making losing more challenging.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These days it seems the whole government has taken an interest in whom I fight. Reich Minister Goebbels has made it very clear that he doesn’t want me to take on Louis.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s afraid I might lose. A German losing to a Negro would hurt their theories of German superiority.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I can beat him,” he said. “I saw a flaw in his technique.”

  “No, I meant, what do you think about their theories?”

  I had never really asked Max’s opinion about anything outside my boxing training. And it felt like I had crossed a line when I asked this question, but it had just slipped out. No one really discussed politics in the gym, particularly around Max. He paused a moment before responding.

  “I’ve fought dozens of men of all backgrounds, and you see every type of human emotion in the ring: heroism, cowardice, rage, fear, doesn’t matter the skin color. Everyone bleeds the same.”

  “Do you hate Louis like the papers say?”

  “I don’t even know him. That’s just sportswriters trying to stir things up. Sport is sport,” he said. “Hate has nothing to do with it.”

  “How are you going to beat him?”

  “Ah, you want to know the biggest secret in boxing, huh? If I tell you, you must swear to never tell a soul. If word ever got out, Louis would destroy me.”

  “I swear,” I said.

  For weeks Max had been hinting at the flaw he had discovered in Louis’s technique, and the sportswriters had been trying to guess at the secret, but nobody had. He claimed that he hadn’t shared the information with anyone, not even his wife.

  Max glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby or listening; then he led me aside to a corner of the gym to hide us from view and positioned me as if I were Joe Louis and he were squared off in the ring against me. My pulse quickened as Max lowered his voice.

  “When Louis delivers his jab, he drops his left,” he said.

  He demonstrated by moving my left arm in a jab and then freezing it in the lowered position.

  “You see?” he continued. “That leaves him vulnerable to attack by my right-hand counterpunch.”

  He punched me in slow motion with his meaty right hand.

  “Your straight right is your best punch!” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “All I have to do is to be patient and wait for my openings, and I know I can beat him. If I can survive enough of those jabs.” Max looked me in the eye. “Don’t tell anyone, Karl. My fate rests with you now.”

  That night I drew a sketch of Joe Louis into my journal. It was the first time I had ever drawn a Negro. At first his facial features seemed so different, but as I stared at his photograph and drew the face, I noticed how young he looked. It made me realize that he was closer to my age than either Max or Barney Ross. He looked young and hungry, as if he wanted to prove something to the world, just like me.

  Sour Sixteen

  IN THE WEEKS LEADING UP TO THE LOUIS FIGHT, MAX went to train in America. I continued working out at the club and entering local youth tournaments, always with an eye toward the goal of one day becoming the German Youth Champion. My only true distraction was Greta.

  Just a few days before the fight, Greta was due to turn sixteen. I made her a hand-drawn card depicting the Eiffel Tower. At first I just created the card using black ink on paper, but it didn’t look nice enough. Unlike the comic strips and caricatures I created, this needed color. So I started over. I carefully drew the picture in pencil and then colored it with watercolors. I let the paint dry and then filled in the details in pen and ink.

  With some of the meager money I had saved, I also bought her a small silver charm shaped like the Notre Dame Cathedral to replace the clover charm she had given me. I had the new charm wrapped in a small box and tucked in my back pocket as I approached the park at our usual meeting time.

  The sun hung low in the sky and gave off a flaming yellow glow behind darkening clouds. As I walked, I squeezed the small rubber ball that Max had given me. In addition to being a tool to strengthen my grip, the ball provided a good tension release, as I always felt a nice little knot of anticipation before seeing Greta. I arrived at our meeting place by the bench and was surprised not to find her already there. She typically beat me by about a minute or two. I sat on the bench and waited, scanning the near darkness for her approach.

  Then I heard some rustling in the bushes nearby and the distinct sound of Greta crying out, “No.” I moved toward the noise. I heard her gasp. I moved behind the first row of shrubs to discover Greta pressed up against a tree by Herr Koplek.

  “Please stop,” she pleaded, straining against his grasp.

  “Come on, open up for me,” he growled, leaning his face forward and sniffing her neck. His tongue darted out and touched the skin of her throat.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  “Karl!” she gasped.

  I approached, but Herr Koplek did not release her.

  “Get away, boy,” he said. “If you know what’s good for you. Schnell!”

  “Get your hands off her
,” I said.

  “I know what you’ve been up to,” he said. “You both could be in deep trouble. Now if you want me to keep my mouth shut, you’d better get out of here, Jew.”

  “Karl, please,” Greta said. “Don’t go.”

  “I said take your hands off her now.”

  I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him toward me. I balled up my fists and assumed a fighting stance.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “If you don’t get out of here this minute, you and your family will be out in the street tomorrow. I swear it.”

  I stood there with my fists cocked, feeling the blood pulse through my fingers, wanting more than anything to unleash a torrent of punches at him. He was flabby and slow, and I had been doing all the coal shoveling for the past two years, so I was certain that his shoulders and arms had weakened. I knew I could beat him. I wanted to hurt him badly, to defend Greta and myself. But my mind quickly calculated the risk, and I knew that if I punched him, there would be dire consequences.

  So I lunged forward and gave him a quick shove, which sent him tumbling to the ground. Then I grabbed Gteta by the hand and shouted, “Come on!” We both took off out of the bushes and through the park.

  Koplek called after us: “You’ll regret that, Stern!”

  We ran without speaking for several blocks, feeling eyes following us that weren’t there, certain that Koplek was hot on our heels. When we were just a few blocks from our apartment building, Greta started to slow. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching and pulled her into a dark alley.

  “What do we do now?” she said, out of breath.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I have to think.”

  “He knows we’ve been meeting. He’ll tell my father.”

  “We haven’t done anything wrong. He did. He attacked you. We should turn him in. It’s our word against his.”

  “No one will believe us,” she said. “We’re kids. And you’re a Jew. Who knows what he’ll say we’ve been doing?”

  “He never saw us do anything.”

  “He saw us kiss in the basement that first time.”

  “But that was two years ago.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s enough.”

  “Enough to what?” I said. “Get me arrested?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I should’ve hit him anyway,” I said.

  “Then you’d really be in trouble. Look, I’ve got to get home.”

  “What if Koplek says something?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve got to come up with a story.”

  “I’m not going to tell a story,” I said. “I’m going to tell the truth.”

  “We can’t tell the truth.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Please, Karl. Just don’t say anything. Maybe Koplek won’t say anything either.”

  “Even if he doesn’t, what if he comes after you again? What’ll you do then?”

  “I don’t know. Just please don’t say anything.”

  “Greta . . .”

  “Please, Karl, I’ve got to go.” She backed away from me.

  “Wait,” I said. I was desperate for her to stay, to hold and protect her.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve really gotta go,” she said.

  And she turned and ran back out of the alley toward our apartment building.

  I watched her dash away. It was only after she dis-appeared from sight that I realized that I still had her card and the small box in my back pocket.

  The Reopening of Galerie Stern

  I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING TO MY PARENTS THAT NIGHT. AS the hours passed, the weight of guilt built up inside me, coupled with the raw fear of exposure, so I could feel each tick of the clock pass like the Sword of Damocles swinging over my head. Greta’s desperate voice echoed in my head. I had recurring visions of her pressed against the tree in Herr Koplek’s grasp. Her expression, which was typically so confident and in control, looked vulnerable, horrified, and scared. All of this made my feelings for Greta more pronounced than ever, and my desire to see her rose up like a fast-escalating fever.

  In the morning I stayed away from the basement and did my best to avoid Herr Koplek. I hoped to see Greta in the hallway and lingered by the front door on my way to and from school to increase my chances of seeing her, but I didn’t. I still carried her birthday gift and card in my back pocket, planning to furtively pass them to her if I got the opportunity. I wanted more than anything to speak with her, to know she was okay and to find out if she had confessed anything or if Koplek had approached her father.

  A full day passed without incident, and I started to relax. That night we dined as a family, which had become a relatively rare occurrence because of my father’s odd schedule and my mother and me running deliveries for him. My mother had prepared a simple meal of noodles with mashed turnips and gravy flavored with just the slightest amount of shredded meat. Meat had become a rarity, and the quality was generally poor. Hildy called the dish “shoelace stew” because the strands of meat reminded her of thin strips of leather. We had just sat down when there was a loud knock at the door. Everyone froze at the noise. Since Uncle Jakob’s arrest, we had heard more and more stories of the Gestapo’s coming to arrest people at night with no warning or explanation. My father shot my mother a glance.

  “You expecting anyone?”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  As soon as I heard the knock, my body tensed as I assumed it was Herr Koplek finally coming for revenge. My father did not reply, perhaps hoping whoever it was would just go away. But after a moment the knocking resumed.

  “Herr Stern?” A voice called from behind the door. “It’s Fritz Dirks.”

  My father registered surprise and rose to answer the door.

  Fritz Dirks worked for the large real estate company that managed several buildings in the neighborhood, including ours. He was also an art lover. And although they were not friends, he and my father got along well. He had attended several openings at the gallery and even purchased a painting from my father years earlier. From the kitchen I could see down the hall as my father opened the door and Herr Dirks stepped inside, holding his bowler hat in his hands, wearing a grave expression. An extremely tall, gaunt older man, he had just a few strands of gray hair that he combed over his bald head.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Herr Stern.”

  “Not at all, Herr Dirks, please come in. May I offer you something?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m afraid I’m here to perform an unpleasant task.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s been, well, an accusation against your son.”

  “Karl?”

  “Yes. And it is quite serious. Apparently he’s been making sexual advances on the Hauser girl.”

  “What?” my father gasped.

  “That’s not true,” I said, rising and joining them in the front hall. My mother and Hildy followed.

  “Hildegard, go to your room,” my father said.

  “But, Papa—”

  “Come, Hildy,” my mother said.

  “Mama,” she whined.

  “Come,” my mother repeated, leading her down the hall and into Hildy’s room. My mother went inside with her and shut the door, leaving me and my father alone to face Herr Dirks.

  “Herr Koplek caught them in the basement in a compromising situation.”

  “Koplek’s a liar!” I spat.

  “Karl.” My father held up his hand to silence me and then turned back to Herr Dirks. “What exactly is my son accused of?”

  “I don’t have specific details. Suffice it to say there was apparently inappropriate physical contact.”

  “We weren’t doing anything wrong,” I said. “Koplek is the one who—”

  “Karl.” My father cut me off again. “What is going on with you and the Hauser girl?”

  “We’re friends. Good friends. She would never say I did an
ything inappropriate.”

  “She has said nothing,” Herr Dirks said. “And she will say nothing. Her parents don’t want her to be involved in this. As a result, they refuse to deny or acknowledge anything. They just want it to go away.”

  “But Koplek is lying,” I said.

  “Jürgen Koplek has worked for my company for seventeen years. He is not the most agreeable man, but he has an unblemished work record. I’m afraid that given the circumstances, I’m going to have to ask you to move out.”

  “Move out!” my father gasped. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he replied.

  “But this is nothing. Two sixteen-year-olds holding hands—”

  “Herr Koplek said they were doing more than holding hands.”

  “He’s a liar, Papa. He is the one who was inappropriate. He was jealous.”

  “I didn’t come here to arbitrate anything between you and Herr Koplek,” Dirks interrupted. “But I must say it would be hard for anyone to believe that a forty-two-year-old Aryan would be jealous of a sixteen-year-old Jew. You must be rational about this.”

  “Rational?” my father said. “We’ve lived here for ten years. Ten years. Even in the leanest times I’ve always paid my rent on time, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, but this is not about that.”

  “We have rights as tenants too,” my father said.

  “Unfortunately for you, that contention is now open to interpretation. Everyone in the building has heard about this. True or not, there is a scandal. There are party members living in this building. I don’t want any trouble. No one wants any trouble.” He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe your son. I’m terribly sorry. I really am. This is not how I want things to be. But I can’t overlook this, given the way things are. I have to ask you to leave.”